bone garden
these boys bloomed in a garden of bones
where they learned the art of burning joints for nectar.
despised by flowers, they bonded with thorns
& learned first-hand, the science of sharply drawing blood.
these boys, nocturnal as snakes, slither before dawns
& make sure it breaks
into pieces before dawn & the wail of unbecoming.
in their eyes, their fear is like a warning flare
red and loud in its obsession, its rage. but they must noise through it.
they are telling us things, with these garrulous gunshots,
rumors of the looming death
of all things once sacred and lovely, once dreamed,
all things flaking and falling away, in a country that paints
its children the crimson of sin
the red of laser-light violence, flushing all things green
down gutters blooming with mosquito song,
as though boys do not deserve a safer kind of music.
& now this music is all they have:
slap-ear music for the red-faced journey,
gruesome harmonies that torture spirit, solos that revile sleep.
once, a boy told me those songs keep his sleep patternless.
& this is how he tricks the cousin of death.
I ask him if he does not fear life as much as death. he says
sometimes, he grabs the finger of survival so tight it severs the arm
& he sits laughing at the gore, with other boys, who dream
in red, homed in places where the lights refuse to go,
where the night refuses to mollify & the country
thickens its lies with soot
& the fingers that point blame avoid the three pointing back
& the buck-passers laze in mansions fed by the blood of the slums
& the bone garden never forgives
& the bone garden never forgets.
the thing is
the thing is, offering anything into a void
is pain.
hollering a thing that refuses to holler back
is pain.
something about expectation – when a voice wobbles forth
it wants to be seen, and held.
it wants to incite a flicker of tongue, a curve of the brow,
a jerk of wrist, a discoloration of the eye,
something – anything.
not silence. not the ashen echo of emptiness.
not that chirp-ridden quietude
that will cause it to judge itself.
& so i wanted you to say it back, love.
i needed you to say it back – when i offered myself
in tryptich song. said i love you, again,
provoking einstein with my insanity.
said i love you again, and waited. before your mouth,
praying, this time you will not confound me –
you will not pepper me with silence
& i will not spiral in shame,
in dark wonder and mindfuck.
once, I entered my old room,
in my father's forgotten place. dirt grimed its walls,
& cobwebs curtained its ceilings
& it hit me how the spaces you reserve
for soft things
can ache from disuse,
can clog with despair until they smell like shame.
Elegy for a Broken Dial
Every day, the dial breaks. You swing the wrong way, and I measure the wrong second. I am still here, waiting for the mood of the world to change, waiting for the dream in which you do not become ash and filter into the void. There is a red blur, still, staining the sky. Only this morning, I heard the serpent giggling, and something tells me I have been betrayed. What is the view like, from the pearly gates, how small am I? How odd do I look mourning this inescapable surrender? Every day, I think I have forgiven yesterday. Every day, I breathe the new air and it stirs my hatred senseless. You swing over the veil, and I measure the wrong second again. The mood of the world does not change. Everyone is still waiting for something to die.
BIO:
Divine Inyang Titus, a past winner of the STCW Future Folklore Climate Fiction Contest, 2021 and author of the chapbook A Beautiful Place To Be Born. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, The Parliament Literary Journal, The Hearth Mag, The Shallow Tales Review, and elsewhere.
these boys bloomed in a garden of bones
where they learned the art of burning joints for nectar.
despised by flowers, they bonded with thorns
& learned first-hand, the science of sharply drawing blood.
these boys, nocturnal as snakes, slither before dawns
& make sure it breaks
into pieces before dawn & the wail of unbecoming.
in their eyes, their fear is like a warning flare
red and loud in its obsession, its rage. but they must noise through it.
they are telling us things, with these garrulous gunshots,
rumors of the looming death
of all things once sacred and lovely, once dreamed,
all things flaking and falling away, in a country that paints
its children the crimson of sin
the red of laser-light violence, flushing all things green
down gutters blooming with mosquito song,
as though boys do not deserve a safer kind of music.
& now this music is all they have:
slap-ear music for the red-faced journey,
gruesome harmonies that torture spirit, solos that revile sleep.
once, a boy told me those songs keep his sleep patternless.
& this is how he tricks the cousin of death.
I ask him if he does not fear life as much as death. he says
sometimes, he grabs the finger of survival so tight it severs the arm
& he sits laughing at the gore, with other boys, who dream
in red, homed in places where the lights refuse to go,
where the night refuses to mollify & the country
thickens its lies with soot
& the fingers that point blame avoid the three pointing back
& the buck-passers laze in mansions fed by the blood of the slums
& the bone garden never forgives
& the bone garden never forgets.
the thing is
the thing is, offering anything into a void
is pain.
hollering a thing that refuses to holler back
is pain.
something about expectation – when a voice wobbles forth
it wants to be seen, and held.
it wants to incite a flicker of tongue, a curve of the brow,
a jerk of wrist, a discoloration of the eye,
something – anything.
not silence. not the ashen echo of emptiness.
not that chirp-ridden quietude
that will cause it to judge itself.
& so i wanted you to say it back, love.
i needed you to say it back – when i offered myself
in tryptich song. said i love you, again,
provoking einstein with my insanity.
said i love you again, and waited. before your mouth,
praying, this time you will not confound me –
you will not pepper me with silence
& i will not spiral in shame,
in dark wonder and mindfuck.
once, I entered my old room,
in my father's forgotten place. dirt grimed its walls,
& cobwebs curtained its ceilings
& it hit me how the spaces you reserve
for soft things
can ache from disuse,
can clog with despair until they smell like shame.
Elegy for a Broken Dial
Every day, the dial breaks. You swing the wrong way, and I measure the wrong second. I am still here, waiting for the mood of the world to change, waiting for the dream in which you do not become ash and filter into the void. There is a red blur, still, staining the sky. Only this morning, I heard the serpent giggling, and something tells me I have been betrayed. What is the view like, from the pearly gates, how small am I? How odd do I look mourning this inescapable surrender? Every day, I think I have forgiven yesterday. Every day, I breathe the new air and it stirs my hatred senseless. You swing over the veil, and I measure the wrong second again. The mood of the world does not change. Everyone is still waiting for something to die.
BIO:
Divine Inyang Titus, a past winner of the STCW Future Folklore Climate Fiction Contest, 2021 and author of the chapbook A Beautiful Place To Be Born. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, The Parliament Literary Journal, The Hearth Mag, The Shallow Tales Review, and elsewhere.
